


Sherlock’s delayed amends

by PlainJane



Series: Aftermath [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Discussions of parenting, F/M, Fix-It of Sorts, Hand Jobs, Janine - Freeform, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Misunderstandings, More Tags as Chapters Are Added, Mycroft will fix what he can, S3 resolution, bad mary, canon scenes with unseen bits, very light Dom/sub
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-14
Updated: 2016-01-11
Packaged: 2018-04-04 08:14:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 18,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4130773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlainJane/pseuds/PlainJane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to John's missing Wednesday. Sherlock wakes up after being shot by Mary, but now he must deal with John's recovered memories of that missing Wednesday. Sherlock has much to atone for. John is conflicted. And, of course, Mary, Magnussen and Moriarty aren't going to just sort themselves out...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue - That same Wednesday

Mycroft entered the sitting room, two of his larger dark-suited “assistants” following in his wake. He began his perusal of the room with a disdainful sniff.

“You’re very fortunate I happened to be available for this.”

He paused at seeing John’s upended chair and tapped his umbrella against the floor. Twice.

Sherlock sighed and tugged his dressing gown tighter around him. He was not in any sort of mood for his brother’s annoyingly insightful deductions. Or his snide comments.

Mycroft returned his gaze to Sherlock and scoured him top to toe. Both eyebrows then shot towards his receding hairline. He opened his mouth to speak, closed it again, and then cleared his throat.

“He’s in the back,” Sherlock said sharply, turning his back on Mycroft and the goons. He didn’t wait for his brother to nod his approval to the two men—he knew it would happen. Instead, he stared out the front window and listened to the footsteps carrying them into his bedroom.

“Are you…all right?”

“Please do spare me the tea and sympathy, Mycroft.”

“There was a physical altercation. I am inquiring after your health. Mummy would want to know.”

“Planning to tell her, are you?”

“Of course not, but if she were here…” Mycroft trailed off with a sigh. “Did he hurt you?”

Sherlock turned back to meet his brother’s eyes with a smirk. “Not in any way I didn’t want him to. Nothing… _alarming_.”

Mycroft blinked at him, clearly at a loss for words. Far too rare, in Sherlock’s opinion.

The two men emerged from Sherlock’s room carrying the dead weight of Dr. John Watson between them. Sherlock bit his lip as he watched them shuffling John’s not inconsiderable weight. John was a short man, but sturdy and compact. He was unassuming, perhaps, but strong and handsome and…

John would still smell like _them_. But Mary would be gone for two more days. She would never suspect.

“Perhaps my earlier question was a little hasty,” Mycroft continued smoothly. He stepped toward the slumbering former army captain. “How long has he been unconscious?”

“He’ll be fine,” Sherlock snapped, drawing his brother’s knowing look. Sherlock shrugged. “I-I don’t know how long he’ll sleep, but…look, can you just take him home and make it look, I don’t know—like some kind of alcohol thing?”

Mycroft nodded. He addressed his two agents then. “Take Dr. Watson to the car. I’ll be down presently.”

Sherlock bit his lip as they manoeuvred John down the stairs. He didn’t want to miss him, but he already did. There was a horrible clawing feeling in the pit of his stomach the likes of which he’d never experienced before.

“Hurts, doesn’t it?”

“Shut up, Mycroft.”

“Caring. Getting involved. It comes at a very high price.”

“I don’t…” Sherlock curled in on himself in an effort to stave off the pain.

He was staring at his feet when the well-polished oxfords suddenly appeared beside them. A long-fingered hand—fine-boned and elegant like his own—landed on his shoulder. It was a little awkward, as it was indicative of the kind of familial sentiment neither of them had engaged in since they were children. Still, the intention was understood.

Sherlock swiped uselessly at the few tears that managed to escape.

Mycroft’s hand lifted and Sherlock counted the steps as his brother took his leave.

“Don’t worry, Sherlock,” Mycroft said almost gently. “I’ll take care of everything.”

Sherlock waited until Mycroft was nearly out of earshot before managing a very quiet, “Thank you.”


	2. Be careful what you wish for

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock wakes up in hospital. John is reminded of what is at stake.

_“That night I had what I thought was a bizarre, alcohol-fuelled dream. I was in uniform and we…” John took another deep breath. “But it wasn’t a dream, was it? When you mentioned my missing Wednesday at the reception, I knew. I knew. Whatever you did to me—I should be furious. God, you utter bastard, to take advantage of me like that. And to…” John cleared his throat once more. “Well, I’ve had a lot to think about.”_

_John leaned in, grasping Sherlock’s unmoving hand in both of his own. He hovered just above Sherlock’s ear._

_“I remember, Sherlock,” he whispered. “So now you have to wake up. I-I have no idea what we’re going to do, but you have to wake up.”_

_John ghosted his lips experimentally over Sherlock’s warm cheek._

_“You have to come back to me. We have a lot to sort out, you and I, so you have to come back to me. Because I_ remember _.”_

…

“Mary.”

John jumped back at the whispered name. He dropped Sherlock’s hand and slumped into the uncomfortable hospital chair as Sherlock’s eyes fluttered open.

“John?”

“Ye — ” John’s voice cracked. “Yes. Yeah. I’m here.” He slid forward again as the dark head turned toward him. “Sherlock.”

“Mmmm, John.”

“Just…take it easy.”

Sherlock licked his lips and huffed a little. “What—”

“You were shot. Someone shot you. An intruder at Magnussen’s office.”

“No, but…” Sherlock struggled to focus, clearly sifting through his memories of the night. “Oh, god.”

“It was bad. They l-lost you for a few minutes.” John took a deep breath. “You died.”

“John, look—”

“Well, well, well!” Dr. Khamir, the surgeon of record, peered through the door, her smile broad. “Look who’s awake.”

Sherlock’s expression was a high-speed shuffle from confusion to annoyance to desperation as the tall woman approached his bed. John had to look away. He could feel Sherlock’s eyes on him, then, as the doctor joined them. Sherlock had heard him. He must have.

_Mary. His wife, Mary. The mother of his child._

What the hell was the matter with him?

“You gave us quite a scare, Mr. Holmes,” Dr. Khamir continued. “Didn’t he, Dr. Watson?”

“Uh, yeah. Really did,” John mumbled, forcing a smile. He glanced at the doctor but refused to meet Sherlock’s penetrating gaze.

Dr. Khamir regarded both men, her brow furrowed. “Right. Uhm, well, I won’t keep you. I’m sure you two have a lot to discuss. I’ll send the nurse in to check your vitals.” She glanced at John once more. “In a few minutes.”

She was gone as abruptly as she had entered the room, leaving a leaden silence in her wake.

“John, look at me.”

“I-I should go and see…” John stumbled over the words, and was suddenly awkward in Sherlock’s presence in a way he never had been before. He stood, rubbing sweaty palms over his thighs. “I texted Mary to come. She—she’ll probably be here soon.”

“John, please…”

“Christ.”

“John?”

“I can’t do this. I don’t know why I thought I could. You…you had no right. You lied to me and what you did was—”

“Despicable.”

“Fucking right it was,” John snapped, finally turning back to face Sherlock. He gasped a little at the blue-green of Sherlock’s eyes and the dark circles beneath them. The pallor of the angular face. “Jesus, Sherlock. I almost lost you. Again.” John cleared his throat and sniffed away a tear he refused to shed. “But I can’t do this.”

“I know.”

John lifted one hand, inching in the direction of the slender fingers resting on the hospital bed. Sherlock reached out for it, palm up. There was barely a breath of space between them, but it felt to John like so much more.

“I can’t. Not now.”

“I know.”

“I-I have to…” John stumbled back, away from the bed and the temptation of Sherlock’s bared flesh. He could remember the smell and the taste of it. The feel of it beneath his hands. The heat of it surrounding him.

John dashed for the door, barely registering his name from Sherlock’s lips. It was a heartbreaking sound, muffled and weak. He was still running when he reached the stairwell and began to pace, and Mary appeared.

He blurted the good news to her, a rush of words in a gust of anxious breath. He made a joke about Sherlock’s first word. He gathered her close, burying his face in her neck. The familiar scent of her perfume was calming as he sought to banish the gauzy, dream-spun remnants of the illicit night that had been haunting him for weeks.

_Mary._

He had to focus on Mary and the baby.


	3. Two broken hearts for the price of one

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another night, another hospital bedside. Everything that must be said, is.
> 
> Finally.

_“You can trust Mary. She saved my life.”_

_…_

“Mr. Watson.”

“Dr. Watson,” John corrected. It usually was not his habit to do so, but in their current situation he felt more comfortable alerting the hospital staff to his profession.

“Sorry, doctor,” the nurse said softly. “Dr. Khamir would like to speak with you in the family lounge.”

John nodded. He stood, taking one last look at the man sleeping in the bed beside him, and followed the nurse. They left Sherlock’s private room and proceeded to the end of the corridor to the family lounge—a comfortable snug, decorated in muted shades of blue.

“Dr. Khamir will be with you shortly.”

“Thank you.”

John perched on the edge of the seat of one of the dark leather armchairs. He wouldn’t make himself comfortable; he didn’t intend to be away from Sherlock for long.

He hadn’t expected to be sitting next to Sherlock’s hospital bed again so soon. He couldn’t have imagined that Sherlock would leave the hospital before he was even close to being healed. Could never have guessed why he would do so or what he would get up to, or for whom.

And now here they were. Sherlock was once more fighting for his life, and John was…

Sherlock’s words continued to echo inside his head. He’d not been able to think of anything, save for Sherlock’s condition, since that moment at 221B. It was ridiculous. Sherlock had to know it was ridiculous.

How in the name of all things holy could he ever trust Mary again? Surgery his great, hairy bollocks.

For fuck’s sake, how stupid did Sherlock think he was? He was a soldier. He was a doctor. He knew what a wound intended to cause maximum damage looked like. Slow death, maybe, but death nonetheless. And Sherlock _had_ died.

The person who’d shot him had intended— _Mary_ had intended…

Maybe she’d simply hoped Sherlock might survive. Maybe she had called the ambulance to hedge her bets. It didn’t matter. He didn’t care.

She shot Sherlock. His wife—a woman he now realized he didn’t really know at all—shot Sherlock. The man whose “death” had nearly killed John the first time. His best friend, his partner, his…

He shook his head and swallowed around the lump in his throat. The door swished open and Sherlock’s surgeon entered. Her dark auburn hair was caught up in an untidy, loose knot on the top of her head and she looked weary. Clearly, it had been a long shift.

“Dr. Watson,” she began, taking a seat on the leather sofa next to John’s chair.

“John, please.”

“John.” Her expression was kind, sympathetic. “I’m Zafeera.”

John nodded his acknowledgment with a tight smile.

“So you probably have a fairly good idea what we’re looking at.”

“Internal bleeding.”

Zafeera nodded. “It was touch and go to save his liver. There was a very small perforation of the large intestine as well. He’s lost a lot of blood and we’ll be lucky if we can avoid septicaemia.”

“His heart?”

“No permanent damage, but he was very shocky when we got him in tonight. Again.”

John blew out a heavy breath.

“I don’t think I need to tell you that he has to stay put this time.”

“I know.”

“I’m going to keep him sedated as long as I can.”

“Right.”

“I spoke with his brother earlier. Mr. Holmes seemed to think you would be the one to bring our patient ‘round; talk him into resting and giving himself a chance to heal.”

John shrugged and reached up to rub the back of his neck. “Maybe.”

Zafeera studied him. “I think probably you are.”

“I want to stay with him.”

She nodded. “I’ll let the duty nurse know.” She laid a hand on the fist John hadn’t even realized he was clenching. “I’ll see you both tomorrow.”

John stayed put for a moment after she’d left the room. He rubbed fingers over his brow, willing away the headache that was forming. He couldn’t make any of it make sense, not until Sherlock was out of danger.

In the end, he didn’t leave the hospital at all for three days.

Sherlock drifted in and out of consciousness. The staff kindly allowed John to sleep in the extra bed and Mycroft’s people turned up with some of his clothes and things. It was, in truth, a far bigger bag than he needed for a couple of days. For once, though, he didn’t mind Mycroft’s precognition.

After 72 hours, Dr. Khamir felt it was safe to ease Sherlock off the sedation. On the third morning, John showered and changed and went to fetch himself something for breakfast. When he returned, Sherlock was very much awake.

“John?” Sherlock called, still a little groggy.

“Hey,” John said, his mouth forming a half smile. He rushed into the room and set his coffee down on the bedside table. He took Sherlock’s hand with practiced ease, settling in to take his pulse. “How are you feeling?”

“Awful.”

“That’s what happens when you leave the hospital with an unhealed gunshot wound.”

“It was necessary,” Sherlock said raggedly. “There’s a lot at stake.”

“Yes, there is. And we have a lot to discuss,” John said.

“Not now. Please, John—”

Sherlock was interrupted by the arrival of the morning shift change. The nurse clucked over Sherlock, shooing John from the room so she could give the patient a thorough going over. Fifteen minutes later, she finally emerged and held the door for John to go back in.

Sherlock was facing away from the door, focussing on the window. John sidled up beside the bed and sat in the chair, patiently waiting for the man to acknowledge him. Sherlock continued to stare out into the gloomy, drizzly weather and refused to meet John’s eyes. John folded his hands in his lap and tried to be patient, though he wasn’t exactly sure where to begin.

Finally, Sherlock broke the silence. “Don’t ask me.”

“Don’t ask what? You don’t know what I was planning to ask.”

“Of course I do,” Sherlock sighed. “Don’t ask questions to which you do not want the answers.”

John’s temper flared. He’d had just about enough of people telling what he wanted or needed. “I want the bloody answers, you daft prick,” he snapped. “You owe me this. I’ve been played enough, don’t you think?”

"Oh, this is about Mary."

"This, right now, is about you and me," John said tersely.

Sherlock sighed again. “I’m sorry.”

“What for?”

“You know what for.”

John pursed his lips. “Fine. Go on, then.”

“I said, I’m sorry.”

“No.” John shook his head. “Not good enough.”

“I wouldn’t have done anything to hurt you.”

“You drugged me and sexually violated me.”

“Well, other way ‘round, actually.”

“Jesus, Sherlock!” John stood abruptly and began to pace. “You took advantage of me when I couldn’t consent!”

“Not good.”

“You’re damn right, not good!”

“John, when have I ever claimed to be a good man?”

“It. Was. _Wrong_.”

“I know,” Sherlock acknowledged quietly, having the decency to look contrite. “And I know you may not be able to forgive me.”

John fumed for a moment, utterly conficted. He couldn’t decide if he wanted to punch Sherlock or grab hold of him and never let go. And if he did punch Sherlock, whether it would be for taking advantage or for believing John might not forgive him. Could Sherlock really still think that after everything they’d been through?

“But…why?”

“I’d hoped—well, I was fairly certain you wouldn’t remember.” Sherlock’s voice was small. “I thought, or I suppose I wanted to believe, that it was what you wanted, too. Subconsciously.”

“I don’t see—”

“You said my name.”

“Sorry?”

“You said my name, at the…end.” Sherlock’s hand tightened around the bed sheet and tugged it up over his bared and bandaged chest.

“Your…but I thought I was, you know…”

“Hallucinating. So did I. But you said my name.”

John stumbled and dropped heavily into his chair. “How?”

“I don’t know, but you did.”

“Oh, god.” John covered his face with his hands. “I have no idea what I can trust anymore.”

“I’m sorry.”

John sniffed a little and shook his head again. He lifted his eyes back to the man on the bed. “You are going to tell me why you did it. I want to hear the words.”

“Why I drugged you or the other bit?”

“I’ll have it all. Start at the beginning.”

“John,” Sherlock groaned.

“Start talking. Now,” John said firmly. “And you are going to look me in the eye while you do it.”

Sherlock’s chest rose with a deep breath and finally the dark head rolled on the pillow in John’s direction. John’s fingers twitched with a potent and wholly unbidden desire to run his fingers through the messy curls.

Sherlock’s face was etched with pain. His skin and the whites of his eyes were tinged with yellow as a result of the jaundice brought on by the stress to his liver. It made John’s already heavy heart ache.

“What do you want me to say?”

“Why did you drug me?”

“It was for a—”

“Case. Right. Stupid question.”

“I needed to see if the compound I gave you would result in murderous rage.”

“Obviously it didn’t.”

“No. Though of course it did prompt more…dominant…behaviour.”

Sherlock licked his lips; John could feel the blood rushing to his face.

“But you didn’t try to kill me,” Sherlock continued.

“Did you solve the case?”

“Hmmm? Oh, yes. It was the, uhm, the bodybuilder thing.”

John rolled his eyes. “Of course. Testosterone.”

“Among other things. I recalibrated the next batch and managed to replicate the effects the suspect experienced. He was the murder weapon, but not the killer.”

“Who’d you try it on?”

“Anderson.”

“Oh for—”

“He volunteered,” Sherlock said defensively.

“But you didn’t think to _ask_ when it was me.”

Sherlock let his eyes drift closed for a moment. “It just sort of—”

“—happened,” John finished for him. “Right.” He leaned back in his chair and steeled himself for the next part of the discussion. “So why didn’t you stop?”

Sherlock’s lips tightened.

“Why, Sherlock? When things went…that way. Why didn’t you stop?”

“Because I didn’t want to.” The slightly yellowed cheeks were tinted with a delicate shade of pink. Sherlock swallowed as their eyes met. “You wanted me and I didn’t want to miss my opportunity. It was the only chance I would ever have and so…I took it. I know it was wrong. I know that. But I—”

“You wanted me to want you.”

“Yes,” Sherlock breathed.

“You wanted me.”

“Yes.”

“Just sex, or—?”

“No, not just sex.”

“How long?”

“Always.”

“But—” John groped for understanding. “You said you were married to your work. You never seemed to want anything like that from anyone. Certainly not from me.”

“ _You_ said you weren’t gay! You didn’t ever say you were bisexual. You dated only women. I didn’t want to be distracted from the work, though in the end that effort was an abysmal failure. The more time I spent with you, the less important the distinction seemed. You’re part of the work.”

John shook his head. “Do you know how much I wanted something—anything—like this?”

“W-what?” Sherlock’s bottom lip trembled. “What do you mean? When did you want this? When?”

“I’ve always cared about you. I didn’t know how much until I thought I might lose you.”

“The fall?”

“Nope. Adler.”

“The Woman? But she was just a fascinating diversion. Perhaps the most interesting of her kind, but still just a diversion.”

“But I didn’t know that. I thought you were, you know. Infatuated. Or something.”

Sherlock puzzled over this for a moment. “Perhaps I was. With her mind. For a moment.”

“But never with Janine.”

“I like Janine, but no. Women aren’t really my area.”

“Right.” John let that settle for a moment. It wasn’t that he hadn’t wondered, but it was a bit strange to hear it confirmed.

“Why didn’t you ever say anything?”

“I thought about it. Especially right before Bart’s.” John sniffed. “I didn’t know what to do. I’ve never been in a relationship with a man. I experimented, when I was younger, but…well it never turned into anything. I was unsure of myself. And you.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. You are who you are. It’s why…”

“Yes?”

John sucked air into his lungs. “It’s why I love you.”

Sherlock turned his head sharply, staring up at the ceiling. John waited, wanting so badly to ask for confirmation, but knowing it might not be the words he needed to hear. He watched Sherlock’s profile as the man processed, startled when he saw a tear slip free to trace a path over one of those ridiculous cheekbones.

“Sherlock?”

“Oh, god,” Sherlock gasped. “Oh, god, John. Why do I feel this way? Why does it hurt so much?”

An answering howl of pain stuck in John’s throat as he lurched forward to bury his face in the side of Sherlock’s neck. He grasped Sherlock’s hand in a painful grip and held there—eyes squeezed shut, lips pressed into warm flesh, unsure whether the tears he could feel were Sherlock’s or his own.

Time froze; John allowed himself to drown in the feeling of Sherlock’s body so near his own, and the feel of silky dark hair against his brow.

_This. Always this. Always._

“I’m sorry for what I did. And I’m so sorry I left you,” Sherlock rasped. “So sorry.”

“I know,” John soothed. “I know. And I’m sorry I didn’t say the words before you did.”

Sherlock turned enough to press his lips into John’s hair. “I love you, too.”


	4. A question of intentions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft checks in and John learns even more about where things stand with Mary and Magnussen.

John fumed, his fists clenched, as he trod the familiar carpets of the Diogenes Club. He’d been fetched from Sherlock’s hospital room quite suddenly only a few hours after their talk. Sherlock had been sleeping, but he hated to be away for too long, especially now.

He rounded the corner and walked through the doorway into the private room Mycroft frequently used for their audiences. An attendant closed the tall, heavy, wood door behind him. John proceeded to where Mycroft was waiting, looking remarkably calm in his overstuffed leather armchair by the fireplace.

“Good evening, John.”

“Mycroft, there’d better be a bloody good reason for this. I need to get back to the hospital. Sherlock—”

Mycroft raised a sardonic brow.

“Yes, I realize you probably already know what’s happened, and that you pretty much know where I am and what I’m doing most of the time—except, by the by, when I’m being kidnapped by lunatics to be blown up or cremated.”

“Yes, well,” Mycroft said tightly. He swirled the whiskey in his crystal tumbler. “Priorities.”

“Right. Yeah. Thanks.”

“I’m given to understand that you are now aware of Mary’s…situation?”

“That she’s lied to me about everything since the moment we met and tried to kill my…best friend?” John swallowed hard, the emotions still too raw and close to the surface. “Yeah, I’m aware.”

“You know she didn’t call the ambulance.”

John licked his lips. “Sherlock thinks so, but…”

Mycroft shook his head. “Oh, honestly,” he said, sounding very impatient. “Why would she? If Sherlock had died, her utility to Magnussen would be at an end—the chain of leverage leading to me would be broken, and she would be free. Magnussen could have used the information he had to blackmail her in some other way, I suppose, but at the minimum my brother’s death would have offered her a little breathing room.” Mycroft shifted in his seat. “It was Magnussen.”

“So he didn’t lose his bargaining chip.”

“Just so.”

John nodded, still too numb to fully process what he had already suspected.

Mycroft studied him in the unflinching Holmes fashion. John wilted under the scrutiny, just as he had when Sherlock had exposed his addiction to danger through the unwitting Billy Wiggins.

“Well, now that you know this much, I’m left with some challenges,” Mycroft sighed. “It took some time to identify Mary and get a clear picture of her history. Fortunately, the same retired CIA operative Magnussen found is still in ever great need of capital to finance his own retirement ‘makeover.’”

“Bully for him.”

“Indeed. The question now becomes ‘What are you planning to do?’”

“What do you mean?” John scowled. “Can’t you just—I don’t know—arrest her or something?”

“Is that what you want?”

“I don’t—” John ran a traitorously trembling hand through his hair. “I don’t know.”

“She is pregnant.”

“I know that,” John snapped.

“I could—”

“What?”

Mycroft cocked his head. “I am privy to information that may make this easier for you.”

“Tell me.”

“Are you sure?”

“Tell me.” John’s voice was quietly threatening.

“The child is not yours.”

“ _What_?”

“The ex-boyfriend. David?” Mycroft shifted and crossed his legs. “Mary spent several hours with him one afternoon during your engagement. It was while you and Sherlock—”

“Oh my god.”

“Yes.”

“The guardsman?” John shook his head. “She sent me away so she could…”

“I am…sorry.”

“No. Don’t be. I—” John staggered a little and laid a hand on the back of the chair beside him to regain his balance. Whether this was relief that he now had one less impediment to overcome or grief for his lost mantle of fatherhood, he could not say for certain. “You’re sure?”

“I wouldn’t have told you otherwise. Mary must have suspected; she requested a paternity test under an assumed name. She had the DNA tested against David’s.”

John nodded.

“I realize this is a great deal to take in.”

John nodded again, dipping his chin to his chest. “But i-it’s for the best. Or it will be.”

“I asked you once what we could deduce about my brother’s heart. What have you learned, Dr. Watson?”

John’s cheeks warmed.

“My brother loves you.”

John’s head came up so he could meet Mycroft’s stern gaze.

“You are his colleague, his best friend, and now his lo—”

“Yeah, all right.” John blinked. “So I suppose you helped him get me home that Wednesday?”

“Apologies.”

“Uh-huh.”

“It seemed prudent,” Mycroft began. “To leave you some dignity, and allow Sherlock time to work his way around to some kind of explanation.”

“But he didn’t.”

“No. Well, he has as many weaknesses as any ordinary man. More, perhaps.” Mycroft shifted in his seat, uncrossing his legs. “But that is not news to you.”

“No,” John chuckled sardonically. “I think I know what I’m getting.”

“And so does Sherlock.”

John nodded again. “If you’re planning to tell me you disapprove, don’t bother.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Mycroft said with something almost resembling a sincere smile. “I may not completely understand my brother’s recently stirred need for human companionship, but I will not begrudge it.”

“You know I will take care of him.”

“Yes, I know,” Mycroft agreed. “But we are not out of the woods yet, John.”

“I know. I just—I can’t think about any of it right this minute. I need Sherlock to be well and home and I need some time to, I don’t know, wrap my head around everything.”

“Have you looked at the stick Mary gave you?”

“No. I don’t need to. It makes no difference.”

“I suspect it’s blank. Which is probably just as well. The fewer people with access to those secrets, the better,” Mycroft sighed. He set his glass down on the table beside him. “Magnussen is the real problem now.”

“What are you going to do?”

“There is very little I can do, at the moment. But Sherlock and I have some time to discuss options.”

“Fine.” John nodded and set his jaw. “Good. Whatever. In the meantime, I need to get back.”

“Of course. The car is waiting.” Mycroft stood and took two steps to where John was still standing. He extended his hand. John took it warily. Mycroft shook it firmly and nodded. “Thank you.”

John stared at their joined hands, still a bit shocked. “What for?”

Mycroft’s smile turned mysterious and he turned to stride back to his chair. “Good afternoon, John,” he called over his shoulder.

“Dismissed," John mumbled sarcastically, shaking his head. "Lovely to see you, Mycroft. Always a pleasure.”


	5. The calm before the storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is on the mend, and things are on the move. John is faced with some terrible decisions.

There was no easy way for John to admit to himself that there was no going back.

Nothing would change how Mary had made him feel in the dark months after he thought he’d lost Sherlock, but the sting of her betrayal was in all the things he didn’t know. Which parts of “Mary Morstan” were real and which were simply part of the identity she’d assumed? He could accept that he’d sensed at least a little of the danger in her, and no doubt that was partly what had drawn him in. But how could he have missed the coldness that would drive her to kill his best friend in a misguided attempt to keep him from leaving her?

He was no saint, and didn’t expect to be married to one, but he knew he would never truly be able to trust her again. He knew, too, that Sherlock (for all his many faults) would die for him. He knew that Sherlock would stand by and watch him marry someone else if he thought it was what John wanted. There was a strange security in that kind of devotion—John shared it wholeheartedly. He wasn’t at all sure Mary understood what love really meant.

And yet, as his shock and anger had cooled, he’d realized he could not imagine abandoning her to Magnussen or to a life in prison. His choices were bleak, at best.

The baby also haunted his sleep, back in his bed at Baker Street.

He had been staying at the old flat since the confrontation with Mary. He’d told her he needed a separation—some time to think—which was quite true. Then he simply stayed on when Sherlock was sent home from hospital. They’d kept him in nearly eight weeks, due to complications—Sherlock really was the very worst patient on earth.

John had told Mycroft he would look after Sherlock, which he knew hadn’t been in any doubt. He told himself he was going to rebuild his relationship with his best friend. Also true—they had a whole new relationship to sort out.

He had never featured himself as a man who would leave his wife. He’d hardly forgiven his sister for the way she’d treated Clara. But he knew, down to his core, that this was his only way forward, especially after everything that had happened. Now that he knew. Now that he was sure.

Everything else aside, he’d loved Sherlock first and best. Nothing could compare.

“You’re moping.”

John stepped away from the window. “Sorry?”

“You’re moping again.”

“Yeah, well,” John said dryly. “Not like I don’t have anything to mope about.”

“I know,” Sherlock said softly. He was ensconced on the sofa, laptop in place. “I just don’t see how moping will help with any of it.”

John moved to settle in beside him. This had become their habit in the few days Sherlock had been (very begrudgingly) convalescing at home. John had taken a leave of absence from the surgery to try and keep Sherlock occupied and to ensure he actually participated in his rehabilitation.

John wrapped an arm around Sherlock’s shoulders and Sherlock leaned slightly in his direction. “Tell me.”

“Tell you what? I still have no clients, John. You and Lestrade have seen to that.”

“Not anymore. Dr. Khamir has given you the all clear,” John said, waving a hand in surrender. “But it may take some time for a case to turn up.”

Sherlock sighed—a deeply pained noise.

“And you do know that I’m perfectly well aware you’ve had Billy Wiggins bringing you information from your homeless network.”

Sherlock shrugged. “I can’t afford to lose track of things.”

“I know,” John conceded fondly. “So what are you working on?”

“It’s…nothing.”

“Something for Mycroft?”

“In a way.”

John hummed, his mind wandering again. He rested against Sherlock, taking comfort from the solid warmth of the man beside him and the familiarity of 221B. Even so, he couldn’t help thinking about the home he’d shared with Mary. By now they’d have been decorating the nursery. He wondered idly if Mary had learned the baby’s sex and started choosing paint colours. What if she was waiting for him to come home before she started?

“You could,” Sherlock said suddenly.

“Sorry, what?”

Sherlock turned to look into John’s face. “Mary is happy for you to help raise the child. She doesn’t know you know about David. And he doesn’t appear to be around.”

“Doesn’t appear to be, no.” John thought about this for a moment. “I don’t want to be a part-time father.”

Sherlock hesitated. “Would you—?”

“Would I what?”

“Would you…go back?”

“What? No! God, no.” John turned swiftly and drew Sherlock into his embrace, knocking the laptop off onto the sofa cushion. “Oh, god, I’m sorry. Is this why you’ve been so quiet the last few days?”

“This is difficult for you. I wouldn’t assume…”

John pulled back and cupped one of Sherlock’s cheeks in his palm. “It is difficult. I don’t think I can live without you, but that comes with some bloody awful choices.”

Sherlock smiled weakly before glancing down to the spot where John had clasped their hands together. “Part time is better than no time at all—if you think Mary should retain custody. If you want to raise the baby, I’ll…help. I’ll be rubbish at it, but I can learn. I want to help you be a father, if that’s what you want.”

John shook his head. “It really helps, you saying that, but I don’t think that decision will be in my hands.” He paused, brow furrowing. “The only way to keep Mary from Magnussen right now is to let Mycroft send her to some secure prison somewhere. They’d take the baby and I just—I know what Mary is and what she’s done, but I still don’t think I could do that to her.” John licked his lips nervously. “And what if David is still in the picture?”

“I suppose he could be, though that doesn’t have to mean you can’t play some part in the child’s life. If you wanted to,” Sherlock insisted. “And I’m working on Magnussen.” Sherlock gestured toward his displaced laptop. “I will not let him continue. We’ll find a way to keep the baby—and Mary—safe.”

“How?”

“I have a plan, though I don’t think I should tell you everything. It might be easier if you didn’t know.”

“Maybe,” John sighed. He turned and snuggled down into Sherlock’s side, returning his arm around Sherlock’s shoulders and pressing his cheek into the side of Sherlock’s head. “But I don’t think I can take any more secrets.”

“Fine,” Sherlock sighed. He relaxed into John and fiddled with the edge of his dressing gown.

John chuckled. “Go on, then. Tell me what you’re thinking.”

“Well, you know I met with Magnussen.”

“Yeah, and almost ended up with pneumonia. You nearly gave me a heart attack sneaking out of the hospital like that, thanks very much.”

“I didn’t want you to follow me,” Sherlock replied blandly. “And Dr. Khamir said I needed sunlight.”

John sighed. “And, of course, _that_ is the one piece of medical advice you took to heart.”

“It was expedient.”

“I think you were just trying to give London a glimpse of your ridiculous backside.”

Sherlock cleared his throat. “My…”

John sidled even closer, one hand curled over Sherlock’s thigh. He nuzzled into the dark hair and whispered, “Your exquisite bum. Your lovely—” John kissed his cheek. “Perfect—” Another kiss. “Bitable bum.”

John pulled back, quickly noting the colour in Sherlock’s cheeks.

“Oh,” Sherlock breathed.

John gently kissed Sherlock’s cheek once more and glanced down into his lap. “Well, well. You really are feeling better.”

Sherlock’s blush deepened. “I—don’t—I can’t help it.”

“Shhhh,” John soothed. He dropped his hand over the bulge in Sherlock’s loose pyjama bottoms. He rubbed firmly, eliciting a gasp from Sherlock.

Sherlock sighed and let his head loll to one side. “John,” Sherlock moaned. “Sir…”

John’s blood ran hot at the use of the word. “Oh, god.”

“Is it…okay?” Sherlock panted, looking to John for confirmation.

They needed to have this conversation—about _that_ aspect of John’s lost day—but not when one of them was already aroused.

John nodded vigorously. “God, yes.”

Sherlock smiled, a little tentatively. “And I will be good for you. Your…good boy.”

John swallowed, his mouth suddenly bone dry. He’d never had the courage to embrace this side of his fantasy life before; now it was being handed to him on a silver platter. “Sherlock, christ…”

He continued stroking Sherlock over his pyjamas. Sherlock arched into his touch, sliding down until his cheek was resting against John’s shoulder. John cradled Sherlock against him. He pressed kisses into Sherlock’s hair as he tugged at the drawstring waist on the pyjama bottoms. “You are my good boy, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Sherlock groaned. “Yes, sir. Please…”

John slid his hand under the jersey fabric and dragged his fingertips down the length of Sherlock’s plumping cock. “Be still. I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

“Yes, sir,” Sherlock panted.

John relished the softness of Sherlock’s foreskin as he explored from root to tip. Sherlock moaned and buried his face in John’s neck.

“Easy,” John whispered. “I’ll make it all better.”

He rolled Sherlock’s balls in his palm before wrapping his fist around the warm cock. He pulled once, slowly.

“Oh, John,” Sherlock breathed. He tangled the fingers of one hand in John’s shirt, right over his chest.

“Oh…what?”

“Sir,” Sherlock squeaked. “Captain.”

“Mmmm, better,” John praised, falling into his role with remarkable ease. He fisted Sherlock’s cock smoothly, setting a gentle rhythm that had the detective panting very quickly. “Do you like that?”

“Yes-s-sir.”

John thumbed at Sherlock’s slit, now dewy with pre-come. Sherlock emitted a high-pitched whine; his hips began to lift from the sofa. John stilled his hand.

“Now, what did I say about moving?”

“D-don’t,” Sherlock said weakly. He settled back into his seat and struggled to sit still. “Sorry. Sorry. Please, sir. Don’t stop. Please.”

“All right. Since you’ve asked so sweetly,” John teased. He brushed his lips over Sherlock’s brow as he began to stroke once more. “You are so lovely like this. So lovely for me.”

“For you. Only for you.”

John began to tease with a little twist of his wrist on every upstroke. Sherlock moaned again.

“You’re so close already, aren’t you?” John whispered gently.

“YES! Oh, god. Please!”

“I know. There you are, my good boy. Let it all out. Let me make you feel good.” John focused his attentions on the head of Sherlock’s cock.

Sherlock’s head fell back. “I have to…please. I—oh, god, oh, god, oh god!!!”

John captured Sherlock’s mouth as he spilled his release into John’s waiting palm. John kissed over his cheek and then back to his soft lips as Sherlock shuddered through the final waves. Finally spent, Sherlock sagged heavily into John’s body, humming with satisfaction. John smiled as he slid his sticky hand from the man’s pyjamas.

“Better?” he asked gently, pressing another kiss to Sherlock’s slightly parted lips.

Sherlock nodded and sighed, not moving a muscle as John slid his arm out from behind Sherlock’s shoulders and reached for the tissues to clean them both up.

“Thank you,” Sherlock said. “Sir.”

“Oh, it was my pleasure,” John assured him, wiping his palm clean on a handful of tissues. He dabbed another over Sherlock’s belly and then down under his pyjamas to catch the few stray drops that had landed in his pubic hair.

“Your turn?” Sherlock purred.

“No, I—just no. It’s fine.”

Sherlock regarded him with heavy-lidded eyes. “But…”

“I know. That was for you. Because you needed it and I wanted you to feel good. But I just can’t. Not with everything as it is.”

“I see.”

John laughed a little. “No, I don’t think you do, but it’s okay.” He settled back into the sofa and let Sherlock burrow into his warmth.

“So you want to wait for…more,” Sherlock mumbled, clearly fading.

“Until this is all over, yeah.”

“Okay.”

“But once we’ve dealt with Magnussen. Once Mary is safe…”

“Yes?”

“I want this.”

“What?”

“You and me. Together. Permanently.”

“Sure?”

“Not even a little bit.” John smirked. “You’re difficult and dangerous. Apparently so am I. It’s just fortunate that makes us perfect for one another.”

Sherlock nodded, yawning.

John snorted. “I’m not going to get to hear the plan today, am I?”

Sherlock hummed.

“Sherlock? What about Magnussen?”

“’S good. Plan.”

“Yes, I know, but what _is_ the plan?”

Sherlock sighed again. “Christmas.”

“At your parents’? What about…Sherlock?” He glanced down and realized that Sherlock had dozed off. “Oh, never mind.” He slid sideways and wiggled and shifted until he was laying full length on the sofa with Sherlock draped over him. He kissed the top of Sherlock’s head. “Sleep now, love. Tell me tomorrow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello to anyone who is following this! I've just about completed the whole thing--only the epilogue to go now. So I will post a couple of chapters today. Hope you enjoy!


	6. Through the gates of hell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas Day. Before there was punch.

“I can’t do this.”

“Yes, you can. You have to.”

“I can’t.” John straightened the collar of his plaid shirt and watched Sherlock tugging on his suit jacket. “I can’t look her in the eye and pretend…I can’t, Sherlock. There has to be another way.”

“Look, we need her to stand down so we can deal with Magnussen. Once the threat is neutralized, Mycroft will be able to manage her. I told you: He’ll keep her safe. In exchange for information, he will give her a new identity and relocate her—he’ll even offer to let David go along, if that’s what she wants. But first we need to make sure Magnussen can never threaten her, or anyone else, ever again.”

Sherlock finally looked up, catching John’s eye in the mirror over the fireplace. John knew he was a mess—he hadn’t slept all night. Sherlock’s expression softened slightly.

“Please,” John said softly.

Sherlock crossed the sitting room in two strides and gathered John into his arms. He dropped his chin to John’s shoulder and sighed.

John took a deep breath tinged with Sherlock’s cologne and tried to relax. He tightened his arms around the man’s waist. “But surely Magnussen will figure out that you and Mycroft have cooked this up together.”

“I have something in mind. It’s just outrageous enough that Magnussen will believe it, once Mary texts him.”

John withdrew a little. “Are you sure she’s been in contact with him?”

Sherlock backed away and began to wring his hands. “You know that Mycroft has been interrogating a former CIA agent who came in offering to sell them secrets. And that this man first went to Magnussen.”

“Yeah. He was the one who gave up Mary’s past.”

“Right.” Sherlock began to pace. “But whatever he got from Magnussen wasn’t enough, so this time…”

“He went to MI5.”

“Just so. He offered to sell Mary to them.”

“Okay. So what have they found out?”

“Something we didn’t expect. He told us about Mary’s slow turn from the CIA and about the mysterious new employer she’d found. The descriptions he gave, well…it didn’t take us long to put all the pieces together.”

“Sherlock, don’t make this harder. Just tell me.”

“It was Moriarty, John. Mary worked for Moriarty.”

John sat heavily on the sofa. “Jesus.”

Sherlock stopped in front of him and sat on the coffee table. He took John’s hands. “I was going to tell you, but I wanted to wait until we knew the rest.”

“Rest…what?”

“Mary had an employer she feared far more than she fears Magnussen. The thing is, we suspect that somehow someone from Moriarty’s network is still controlling her.”

“You got them all.”

“Evidently not.”

“Jesus.”

“I’m sorry.”

“But…” John ran the past three years of his life over and over in his mind. “But if she’s been working for Moriarty or somebody all along, then—was I…was our marriage part of that?”

Sherlock stood again, frowning, and shoved both hands in his pockets. “You’d have to ask her about the marriage, but I do think she was placed in your path for a reason.”

“It just keeps getting better.”

“But we have to focus on Magnussen right now. As long as he’s a threat to her, we’ll never get to the rest. So, yes, I believe Mary has been in contact with him. She needs this to go away so she can continue with her mission.” Sherlock resumed his pacing. “Back to today: I’m sure Magnussen will suspect a set up, but what I’m planning might be enough. Mary’s been negotiating with him on her own, though of course she’s had nothing to bargain with. She’ll be all too happy to let him know that I have in fact betrayed Mycroft as a trade-off for her past.”

“Her mission,” John repeated dumbly. He stood and walked to where Sherlock had paused by the window. “I was her mission.”

Sherlock nodded, not looking John in the eye. “I think Mary targeted you because of me. It’s my fault.”

John sighed heavily, but squared his shoulders. “No, we’re not going to do that. You are not responsible for Moriarty’s psychotic schemes. You and I have made mistakes—some really big ones—but we didn’t do this.” He pulled Sherlock into his arms once more, gratified when Sherlock laid his cheek on John’s shoulder. “You know I trust you—though why I still do is a mystery to me. But what if something goes wrong?”

“Always a possibility.”

“Oh, ta,” John chuckled. “Very reassuring.”

“One day, John. One more hard day and this will all work out. We should be able to eliminate Magnussen and draw out Mary’s employer all in one.”

John pulled back a bit and they stared at one another. He nodded a bit sadly, trying to wipe the misery from his expression. “I hate this.”

“I know.”

John chuckled. “Manipulative bastard, looking at me with those sad eyes.”

“Did it work?”

“Course it did. Always does.” John kissed him quickly. “I’ll do my best.”

“That’s all I ask,” Sherlock said. He turned back to his chair and retrieved his coat. “Better dash—my train leaves at 10:30. Don’t forget your gun.”

“My—? Why on earth would I need my—?”

“I’m off!” Sherlock called, flipping his coat collar up as he made his way to the door.

“You know you’re going to need to make it up to me, when this is all over,” John called after him.

Sherlock froze, looking back over his shoulder. “But you said…” he began, puzzled.

John smirked at him. “Oh, not for this.”

Sherlock blinked. “Oh. Right. The…uhm…”

“Wednesday,” John confirmed. “That’s right. Just bear it in mind. When we are finally free to move on, I am going to have to see what can be done about your very, very naughty behaviour.”

Sherlock’s cheeks flushed as he stared into John’s hungry eyes. He swallowed hard and nodded, and started down the stairs.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock turned back, watching John over his shoulder.

“If I don’t get to say it later, Happy Christmas.”


	7. Don’t ask me to say goodbye again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not an aborted declaration of love.

John watched as Mary stepped across the tarmac to kiss Sherlock goodbye.

_Judas kiss._

He swallowed down the anger he’d been carrying since the incident at Magnussen’s and tried to force a smile when Mary turned back to him. She slid into his side and wrapped possessive fingers around his arm. When he was certain she was looking the other way, John gave Sherlock a subtle nod.

_We both know what’s really going on here._

_I’m still in._

_I trust you._

_Don’t get on the plane._

_Promise you won’t leave me._

He waited as Sherlock asked Mycroft to give them a moment alone. They’d rehearsed a whole speech, but somehow—when they were finally standing face to face with Mycroft and Mary a fair distance away—neither of them could stick to the script. It was all John could do to keep his composure.

“So here we are,” he improvised, hoping Sherlock would follow with something more gripping.

“William Sherlock Scott Holmes.”

“Sorry?”

“That’s the whole of it, if you were looking for baby names.”

John couldn’t suppress the laughter that bubbled up at the reference to Irene and his own jealousy.

“No, we’ve had a scan. We’re pretty sure it’s a girl.” His voice caught at the end. _A daughter, but I won’t get to be her father._

“Oh, okay.” Sherlock shrugged.

They both turned and stared at the airstrip. John wracked his brain for the lines he’d tried to memorize.

“I can’t think of a single thing to say.”

“No, neither can I,” Sherlock admitted softly.

“The game is over,” John tried. He knew that had been in there somewhere. _One day, you said. One more hard day._

“The game is never over, John,” Sherlock said, projecting for the cheap seats. Clearly he’d remembered the next bit. “But there may be some new players now. That’s okay. The East Wind takes us all in the end.”

John’s brow furrowed. That was new. “What’s that?”

“It’s a story my brother told me when we were kids. The East Wind, this terrifying force that lays waste to all in its path, seeks out the unworthy and plucks them from the earth. That was generally me.”

“Nice,” John said, his voice rough. _You’re not unworthy. I love you._

“He was a rubbish big brother,” Sherlock replied, glancing in Mycroft’s general direction.

John couldn’t keep the grin from his face, however briefly. It was matched by the warm, genuine smile Sherlock gave him.

“So what about you, then?” John asked, staring at his shoes. He was too close to the edge now. Suddenly one of the lines Sherlock had written for him popped into his head. “Where are you actually going now?”

“Oh, some undercover work in Eastern Europe,” Sherlock sighed.

 _God, don’t even joke about that._ He’d had months to learn about Serbia. He’d seen the scars. “For how long?”

“Six months, my brother estimates. He’s never wrong.”

“And then what?”

Sherlock’s eyes were turning red. It was clear he was as close to breaking as John was. “Who knows.”

John swallowed hard against the tears and turned away with a sniff. He clenched his jaw, scanning the horizon—anything to keep from looking at the man he loved saying goodbye. Again.

“John there’s something I should say, I’ve meant to say always, but I never have. Since its unlikely we’ll ever meet again, I might as well say it now.”

_Don’t. Even pretending. Don’t say it here. Now. Not like this._

There was a long pause and Sherlock took a deep breath. “Sherlock is actually a girl’s name.”

John burst out laughing once more, the tension instantly relieved with Sherlock’s ill-timed humour.

“It’s not.”

“It was worth a try.”

“We’re not naming our daughter after you.” _There won’t need to be a memorial, Sherlock. I’m not letting you go._

“I think it could work.”

Sherlock Watson. Sherlock Watson.

 _It could work. Yes, it bloody well could. And it bloody well will._ John had already planned how he would ask.

They stared at one another once more. John clenched his fists to keep hands that ached to touch from pulling Sherlock into a much-less-than-friendly hug. Sherlock removed his glove and offered his hand.

“To the very best of times, John,” Sherlock said sadly.

_The very best. And those yet to come._

John finally grasped the hand firmly, welcoming the grounding contact. He straightened his spine as Sherlock withdrew and made his way to the plane.

He knew there was a way out. He knew it. Mycroft and Sherlock assured him that Sherlock would have an exit.

But it was all he could do not to run to the plane and climb aboard.


	8. When first we practice to deceive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end is in sight, but there's still the question of Mary.

John stared at the plate in front of him, not really tasting his food.

He’d been back living with Mary since the holidays, at Sherlock’s insistence. At first it was to maintain the charade that Sherlock’s actions were to protect his best friend’s wife, and to ensure they could maintain maximum surveillance on Mary until the Magnussen affair was complete. Now, of course, they needed to put all pieces into play. It was time.

John hated the deception and he’d struggled to maintain the illusion of forgiveness. Thankfully he’d been able to get away without the betrayal of physical intimacy. Mary’s pregnancy had become uncomfortable enough that she preferred sleeping alone.

Now here they sat, eating a family dinner at their new dining table.

“You okay?”

Mary’s voice cut through his reverie. Where he’d once found it soothing and pleasant, it now made him uncomfortable. But it all ended tonight. He glanced up from his dinner with a tight smile.

“Fine,” he replied.

“You haven’t eaten a thing,” Mary chastised gently. “I thought you liked eggplant.”

“No, I do,” John said. “It’s fine. Just not very hungry.”

“Still thinking about Moriarty?”

John nodded. The strange broadcast earlier that day, as they’d watched Sherlock’s plane leave the ground, had changed everything. Now Sherlock had a reason to stay, and they would once again have to track and catch James Moriarty...or whomever Mary was really working for.

“It was strange, don’t you think?” he said. “Giving himself away like that, when he had us all fooled?”

Mary gave him a puzzled look, setting her fork down. “How would I know?”

“Oh, I just thought, being as you worked for him…”

Mary froze. John waited patiently as she worked it out.

She threw her napkin onto the table. “So you didn’t forgive me.”

“Did you really believe that I could?” John asked incredulously. “You tried to kill Sherlock. You say I saw what you were and I married you anyway. Are you going to sit there and pretend you didn’t see what Sherlock is to me?”

“Of course I did. Don’t be stupid.”

“And you married me anyway. Knowing how I felt about him, knowing I would only grow closer to him again and away from you. No ulterior motive there?”

“I thought I would be enough. That if I loved you enough, I could make you as happy as he could.”

“Liar.”

Mary’s expression frosted over. “Fine, then. Tell me what you want me to say.”

“Tell me when you were hired to kill me.”

“John…”

“No, no. It’s fine. I mean, I know all about you. Not from the thing you gave me—I know that was blank. No, Mycroft and Sherlock have seen your whole file now. The one Magnussen memorized. Your old CIA friend got hungry again. This time he went to Mycroft’s people.”

“Shit.”

“Uh-huh.”

“How long?”

“Since before Christmas.”

“You gave quite a performance.”

“It wasn’t my choice, but we needed to be sure you were…neutralized.”

“Oh, well, thanks very much.”

“You have lied to me since the day we met. You were happy to cuckold me. You were willing to shoot my best friend in cold blood, and you threatened him again right in front of me,” John said through gritted teeth. “I’ve heard what you’re capable of. With Magnussen still a threat, I couldn’t take the chance—I couldn’t risk you upsetting Sherlock’s plans.”

“Great plan. Shooting Magnussen in the head,” Mary said flatly. “What’s Sherlock capable of, then?”

“Don’t. Just don’t. We both know this isn’t a contest. You didn’t need to be perfect. You just needed to be someone I could believe in. And you weren’t.”

Mary sighed. “So what now?”

“Now we need you to get in touch with your old boss.”

“He’ll kill me if I do.”

“Is that what you’ve been so worried about?”

“Of course it is,” Mary snapped.

“Why did you ever get mixed up with that madman?”

“I’d done some jobs for him, back in the day. He paid a hell of a lot better than the CIA did, I can tell you that. But in the end, I got tired of it. I’d had enough. I disappeared for a while; came back as Mary Morstan. I’d met David and was trying to build a new life for myself when Jimmy found me again. Sherlock, you see. He’d pushed Jimmy too far, and Jimmy wanted the best for the fight. I didn’t want to, but he threatened to expose me.”

“So Magnussen’s threat wasn’t really new, then.”

Mary shook her head and rubbed at her belly. “When I heard Jimmy was dead, I thought it was over. I’d managed to keep Mary clean, so I figured I was safe. But months later, I got a message ordering me to stay close to you.”

“You knew Moriarty was alive all this time?”

“I wasn’t sure what to think. At first, I thought it was his right hand: scary bastard, former military. Then I started to wonder if maybe it had been Magnussen.”

“But you followed the order anyway?”

“It came with a threat,” Mary said sardonically. “They’d already found me twice. I couldn’t afford to say no. But after I’d met you…I did care about you, you know.”

John swallowed hard and nodded. “Right. Well, I’m sorry. I really am.”

Mary snorted. “Spare me the sympathy. We both know you don’t mean it.”

“I do, though. I don’t hate you, though perhaps I should. And I don’t want anything to happen to you. Either of you.”

She looked down at her bump. “Right. And when it’s all over?”

“Mycroft will trade whatever intelligence you can provide for a new life somewhere else.”

“Oh, well. I suppose that’s something. And you?”

John shrugged. “Back to Baker Street.”

“With Sherlock a murderer.”

“It was a calculated risk.”

“Oh, so killing Magnussen was always the plan.”

“No. Sherlock and Mycroft and the British intelligence community believed there was a storehouse of information under Appledore. All evidence pointed to it.”

“Evidence?”

“The architect’s plans. The house appeared to have been designed with vaults. We had no way of knowing that the plans had been altered after construction.”

“So Sherlock shot him…”

“For Queen and country. He’d have shot him for me, of course, but by then we knew all about you and could have taken you out of the equation. You and the baby.”

“John, I never meant—”

John held up a hand. “I know. I’ve had time to think about it and I don’t blame you for that. I know what it’s like not to be able to give someone up. And the baby—” He cleared his throat. “I know I’m not—if you go into protective custody I won’t be able to see her, and I’ve made my peace with that.” There was a long pause as he allowed that to sink in. “Mycroft will allow David to go with you, if that’s what you want.”

Mary’s face softened briefly. “My god, how are you even real?”

“Sorry?”

“How can anyone be this…noble?”

“I just want you to have a chance,” he said solemnly. “Up to you what you do with it.”

Mary laughed. “After I help you catch Moriarty.”

“Well, yeah, after that.”

Mary shook her head. “He’ll kill you. Jimmy will kill you this time, John. He’ll see how much Sherlock loves you.”

John pursed his lips and then reached for his fork. Finally he took a bite of dinner. “It’s the risk we have to take.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in updating. I have been in hell with a herniated disk in my neck and really gross commitments at work. A couple of chapters today and then the finale (and porn) next week!


	9. Courage, my love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brief interlude. John needs a little reassurance.

John knocked on the half-open door to the sitting room, feeling a bit silly doing so at 221B.

“Come in—oh, John!” Sherlock jumped up from his desk. “I thought we’d agreed not to see each other until after tomorrow.”

Mary had made the contact with “Moriarty” and arranged a meet. Mycroft’s people were ready to mobilize. Now John only had to worry about Sherlock running off half-cocked.

“Sorry, I just couldn’t do this without seeing you. I just…” John crossed the room, shedding his jacket as he did. “I need you, Sherlock. This is the most frightened I’ve been since I sat beside that hospital bed waiting for you to wake up. I love the thrill of the chase. You know I do. But this is different.”

Sherlock lips quirked. “Is it?”

“I love you,” john said, breathing heavily as he stepped into Sherlock’s personal space. “You are the most important thing in my life. Have been since that very first night.”

“You know I feel the same,” Sherlock said softly, staring down into John’s face.

“If I’m going to get through this…” John let his eyes roam over Sherlock’s figure-hugging shirt. The plum-coloured one. His very, very favourite.

“Yes, Captain?” Sherlock drawled.

John’s cock hardened instantly and he reached for Sherlock with a moan. He clasped Sherlock by the back of the neck and dragged the man’s mouth to his own. It was sloppy and a little desperate, but Sherlock clung to him, parting his lips for John’s tongue.

Gasping, John pulled back. “Bedroom. Now.”

Sherlock turned and started walking without saying a word. John smiled to himself as he followed.

Before Christmas—in anticipation of the time they would pursue the physical side of their relationship—they’d managed to have a detailed conversation about the turn things had taken on his missing Wednesday. John had been a bit embarrassed by his behaviour while drugged, but Sherlock assured him he had nothing to be embarrassed about—not only because John’s leanings were very welcome, but because the whole incident was Sherlock’s fault anyway, of course. Both of them were able to admit they’d long suspected this sort of play interested them, though neither had ever indulged in it before.

Sherlock had reiterated that he wanted to call John “Captain” or “sir,” and that he preferred to be John’s “good boy,” all of which suited John very well. They’d negotiated what kinds of things they would try: Sherlock had liked being bound and they’d both enjoyed the discipline; Sherlock clearly had a military kink, and John felt a bit weak at the knees at the idea of role play and Sherlock in some sort of costume as well. They’d also agreed to limits and exclusions. And although Sherlock had argued against any further use of a safe word, John was resolute. Frankly, he was still shocked he’d had the presence of mind to insist on it in his drugged state. At any rate, he’d felt it was still important, at least for a while. It was all new to them both, and he was very well aware of Sherlock’s tendency to neglect his own well-being and push himself too far.

Now, as he reached the end of the corridor, John was exceedingly grateful that things between them were agreed. He could see through the open door that Sherlock had already seated himself on the edge of the bed. His hands rested on his thighs and he watched John approach with a placid expression.

“Shirt,” John barked, his voice gruff.

Sherlock moved immediately to comply. He did not take his eyes from John as he undid the buttons.

“Did you…that night?”

Sherlock nodded, a little sheepishly John thought.

“Guess I have a bit of a weakness for watching you strip.”

Sherlock’s cheeks took on a little more colour as he finished with the buttons and tugged the shirt from his waistband. He dragged it slowly over his shoulders and let it fall. John licked his lips as the pale flesh was revealed.

“God, your skin…”

“Yes, sir?”

“I want to taste you.”

“Yes, sir.”

John stepped in close, the unmistakable bulge in his trousers nearly at Sherlock’s eye level—which was not lost on the detective.

“Like what you see?”

“Yes, sir,"

“Lie back and shift up the bed.”

John began to undo his own clothes as Sherlock hustled to comply. By the time he was settled, sprawled across the centre of the big bed, John had managed to get himself down to pants and socks.

He crawled over Sherlock’s body, unwilling to waste time with foreplay. Not tonight. Sherlock had, very helpfully, bent his arms and kept his hands at shoulder height on the mattress. John clasped one wrist in each hand and pinned Sherlock down as he licked a path across his chest. Sherlock bit his lip as John flicked his tongue over one nipple.

“Jesus, you taste good,” John groaned.

“Please, sir,” Sherlock breathed.

John closed his mouth over the sweet pink morsel and begun to suck. He grazed his teeth over the nub, eliciting a sinful noise from Sherlock, whose hips jerked up against him. John tugged more firmly and Sherlock moaned. Though still wearing his suit trousers, he was sporting an impressive erection himself.

John rutted against him, utterly without coordination or grace. He managed to get his own throbbing prick in the general vicinity of Sherlock’s and began to grind.

“Oh, Captain,” Sherlock gasped. “My captain.”

John sucked hard at the tender flesh of Sherlock’s neck. He nibbled, gently at first and then biting into the sharp relief of Sherlock’s clavicle. Coming up for air, he stared down into the crystalline eyes he loved. “You are so beautiful.”

Sherlock just smiled at him, looking dazed.

John continued the movement of his hips until he could no longer bear the feeling of fabric between them. He pushed up to stand—grinning like a fiend as Sherlock stifled a whine at the loss—and hastily removed his pants and socks. He tugged roughly at Sherlock’s trousers and pants, and threw them to the floor with everything else.

He crawled up and over Sherlock’s body, pleased that the man had not moved a muscle in his absence.

“You are such an obedient boy tonight,” he praised. He dragged his tongue over the lightly furred length of Sherlock’s thigh.

Sherlock bit his lip.

“Shall I give you a reward, my good boy?” John asked, biting at the firm flesh.

Sherlock nodded once.

“Ask me for what you want,” John prompted. He rubbed his hands up and over Sherlock’s hips to massage over the lean torso.

“PLEASE!” Sherlock burst out. “Oh, god, sir—Captain! Please, please will you suck my cock?”

John smirked, teasing his fingertips beneath Sherlock’s heavy balls. He rubbed there a moment, watching the breath catch in Sherlock’s chest.

“If I tell you not to move?”

“I won’t, sir.”

“And If I tell you not to come?”

“I promise!” Sherlock cried. “I will be such a good boy.”

John smiled up at Sherlock as he dropped his head. He nuzzled Sherlock’s throbbing cock with a contented sigh. He huffed the welcome sandalwood and something scent of Sherlock’s body products mixed with the natural musk. He mouthed a line of tender kisses down the length of Sherlock’s prick and back again.

He glanced up, but Sherlock had not moved beyond clenching his fists into the duvet. The dark head was thrown back, eyes closed.

John turned his attention back to his task. Sherlock’s foreskin had almost completely retracted, but he gently slipped the last little bit back from the head. He licked at the plumped flesh and dug the tip of his tongue into the slit. There was a sharp gasp, but Sherlock didn’t move. He licked around the base of the head and paid particular attention to the fraenulum. He pumped Sherlock’s prick gently as he took his time exploring with his tongue—every salty note, every texture, every vein. He needed new memories and he intended to start tonight.

At length, John slid Sherlock between his lips and sucked him into the wet heat of his mouth. He used his tongue to caress as the shaft slid home, and when he pulled back only to plunge back down again.

Sherlock’s breathing was laboured, but his hips remained immobile as John sucked him off. John had long since taken himself in hand to pump in time with the movements of his head.

“Captain!”

John’s head came up, his moistened mouth still open as he looked up at Sherlock. The man had worried his lip almost until it bled.

“Are you on the edge?”

“Yes.” It was a weak whining noise in the back of Sherlock’s throat.

“Easy, now.” John dragged himself up and over Sherlock until they were nose to nose. His own aching cock needed some attention and he suspected Sherlock wouldn’t last much longer. “I need to fuck you. Can you take me?”

“Yes, sir,” Sherlock rumbled, looking deep into John’s eyes. “Please.”

John smiled, taking Sherlock’s mouth in a bruising kiss. “Lube?”

“Bedside table.”

John retrieved the bottle quickly and then settled himself back between Sherlock’s thighs. He slicked his hand and dipped his fingers into Sherlock’s cleft. “Remember, you’re not to come until I tell you.”

Sherlock nodded enthusiastically and dropped his knees out to the side, opening himself wider for John.

John eased two fingers into Sherlock’s hole to spread the lube and ease the passage a little. He did not spend a great deal of time on prep, though—another part of their agreement. He sat back and checked inside the drawer for a condom. Seeing a handful (brand new, he suspected), he chuckled. “I see you were expecting me.”

“Yes, Captain.”

“Good boy.”

John rolled a condom into place. He settled on his knees between Sherlock’s spread thighs and hitched him up by the knees. He took himself in hand and massaged the head of his cock over Sherlock’s rim. “Ready?” John asked, meeting his lover’s gaze.

Sherlock nodded.

John pushed in firmly, not giving Sherlock time to adjust. There was a little resistance—he knew Sherlock would be sore the next day—but Sherlock had been very clear that this was what he wanted. He liked it rough.

John withdrew and slammed home again. Sherlock’s spine arched, but he bit his lip to keep from crying out. He started to reach for his cock when John cautioned him.

“Hands over your head. You don’t come until I say so.”

Sherlock complied, a little reluctantly. He dug his fingers into the duvet above his head and held on as John pounded into him.

What seemed like ages later, when he finally felt his orgasm approaching, John leaned in and took Sherlock’s mouth in a forceful kiss. “Hands under your knees,” he commanded.

Sherlock was quick to reach under and pull his knees up, as John lowered himself over Sherlock’s body. He braced himself with his hands on the bed at Sherlock’s shoulders, his thrusts hard and steady. His belly was now rubbing over Sherlock’s over-sensitized cock and the poor man was trying desperately to stay silent. His eyes were watering with the effort.

John chuckled. “Scream for me, my good boy. I want you to scream when you come just like this. Come on. Come with me!”

Sherlock howled as John slammed into him twice more and roared his completion, Sherlock only seconds later.

When John had finally gathered his wits, he ventured to the bathroom for supplies. He returned to find Sherlock exactly as he’d left him—dazed and fucked out, spread eagle and limp-limbed. John admired the view as he climbed up beside him and began wiping him down with a warm, damp flannel.

“Cap—John?”

“Yes, Sherlock?”

“That was…very good.”

“Thanks very much. You weren’t so bad yourself.”

John wiped himself quickly and dropped the flannel over the edge of the bed. He sat up on his knees and nudged Sherlock’s thigh until Sherlock pulled it up. Sherlock flinched a little as John checked him over.

“You’re swollen,” John murmured gently. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Sherlock sighed, grinning. “Absolutely fine.”

“No tearing or bleeding, though,” John continued as he applied soothing salve to Sherlock’s bottom. “That’s going to be tender for a bit.”

John settled back on the bed and pulled Sherlock into the side of his body. Sherlock wrapped one arm around John’s neck. He tugged until John gave in and bent to give him a kiss. It was tender and unhurried; John relished the feel of Sherlock’s soft mouth.

When they finally parted, Sherlock fixed him with a pointed look. “This is what we like,” he said calmly.

“Yes,” John agreed, feeling a little sheepish. “I know.”

“And in a few hours, my brother will have Mary’s employer in custody. We will have the last of the network wrapped up. Magnussen is gone. Soon this will all be over, and you and I can resume...or rather, we can begin our lives together.”

“I really need to believe that.”


	10. The big bang

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And so it ends...or does it?

It was an excellent plan, full of intelligent precautions.

Mary had made contact and been told to expect instructions (and to be ready to travel) early on Monday.

John left Mary’s house that morning (he could no longer bring himself to call it theirs) at his usual time to go to the surgery. He walked to the tube, leaving the car behind for Mary. He made every effort to look relaxed, even going so far as to put in his earbuds (something he rarely did) and pretend to sleep.

At his usual stop, he joined a handful of others headed out to the main road. He faked the spring in his step and fixed a smile on his face. The lights were on when he arrived at the surgery and the new receptionist—Angie—was quick to greet him.

“Mornin’ Dr. Watson! I wasn’t expectin’ you today.”

John swung his shoulder bag up on the elbow-height counter and leaned in. “Yeah, sorry about that. I switched with Dr. Patel late last night. Mary has an appointment on Wednesday and I’d like to be there.”

“Oh,” Angie’s brow creased with concern. “Oh, course you do. Well, it’s all right. I’ll just swap the names in the system now I know.”

“Ta.”

“Mind, Dr. Patel was covering the walk-ins today,” Angie continued, tapping away at her computer. “Did you want me to switch any of your patients ‘round, if they can come today?”

“No, that’s fine. They’re used to seeing either myself or Dr. Patel, and I don’t want to inconvenience anyone.”

“Right you are. There—all set for the day.” Angie smiled up at him as she hit ‘Enter.’ “Good trip in?”

“Not bad. You?”

“Oh, there was another disruption on the Victoria line. People backed up on the stairs and halfway across the train station!”

“Oh, dear,” John tsked. “That will have everyone tweeting TFL today.”

Angie’s laugh was knowing as she swung her long braids over one shoulder. “I’ve already done mine.”

“Not a jumper or anything, was it?”

“Not that anyone could tell,” she sighed. “They need to do somethin’ about that entrance to the underground station at peak times.”

John winked at the nineteen-year-old. “I’m sure you’ll sort them out.”

“Oh, I will all right,” she grinned. “Anythin’ you need before we open for patients?”

“I should be fine.”

“Right-oh,” she sing-songed as he walked toward his office. “Coffee’s on, if you want some!”

“Thanks.”

John continued into his office/exam room and closed the door behind him. He retrieved his gun from his shoulder bag and slipped the weapon into the back of the waistband of his trousers under his jacket. He sat down at his desk and began reviewing test results for several patients who were waiting for news. He made a few notes on the pad of paper next to his keyboard as he did.

Though he was expecting it, he jumped when the intercom sounded.

“Dr. Watson?” Angie’s voice called.

He punched the button. “Yes?”

“The pathology supplies you ordered are here. Bloke’s ‘round the back—shall I buzz him through?”

“Please. Thanks.”

John rose and headed for the rear door of his office. It opened out into the clinic’s rear hallway, where the storage closets, the staff washroom and the staff lounge were located. He closed his office door behind him and crossed the narrow corridor to the male staff washroom. Once inside, he took the first cubicle and began to undress, setting his gun on the closed toilet seat lid.

He heard the main door open and waited. The cubicle next to him opened and closed. There was some rustling of clothing, and within minutes a uniform was thrust under the cubicle wall. He retrieved it and hung it up, offering his own clothing in return. He pulled on the standard issue trousers, cotton button-down and canvas jacket. He straightened the belt before reaching down to retrieve his gun to tuck it into the back of his waistband under the light jacket.

John stepped out of his cubicle and made his way to the sinks. As he washed his hands, he heard his neighbor depart the other cubicle and join him at the sinks.

“Good morning, doctor,” John said amiably to the shocking John Watson doppelganger he was now looking at in the mirror. The man smiled into the mirror at John, now wearing the NHS driver’s kit (including heavy-rimmed glasses and hat).

“Morning. Thanks for getting those sample cups to us so quickly.”

“No problem,” John said cheerfully, drying his hands. He tipped his cap and left the washroom, following the corridor out to the clinic’s rear entrance. As promised, the driver’s van was waiting for him. He retrieved the keys from the uniform’s right pocket and started it up.

He drove directly to the trust’s main supply centre, next to the hospital. He worried a little about the patients he’d left behind, but Mycroft had assured Sherlock that the man they left in his place would be an excellent physical match  _and_  a qualified medical doctor. With “John” taking walk-ins, Angie would have no reason to come into his office, and none of John’s regular patients were likely to be in (Mycroft’s people would run interference). With any luck at all, the real Dr. Watson would be back before end of day (though Mycroft had an extraction plan in case of emergency).

John left the delivery van in the hospital’s underground parking garage and made his way to the next floor via freight elevator. The NHS pass on his jacket gave him entry to the staff change room. He let himself in and made his way to locker 458. Inside, he found a bag. He took it with him to the toilets and exchanged his delivery uniform for scrubs. There was also a moustache—John made a mental note to kick Mycroft’s arse the next time he saw him.

From the basement, John made his way to A&E where he knew his next contact was waiting. There, in the ward where they kept patients for transfer, he found a ginger-wigged Sherlock on a gurney. He nodded at the orderly (also one of Mycroft’s) who then unlocked the gurney and moved it toward the door. John quickly conferred with the nurse and the attending and signed the appropriate release.  

They wasted no time in getting to the helipad on the roof. There, Mycroft’s last transport was waiting. The orderly loaded Sherlock’s gurney with John’s help and then John jumped aboard. The doors closed and the pilot handed John a headset. He put it on and immediately heard Mycroft’s voice.

“Everyone comfortable?”

John snorted, looking down to where Sherlock was struggling to disentangle himself from the gurney’s restraints and blankets.

“He’s fine, I’m sure,” Mycroft said. “Mary received her instructions via a download to her vehicle’s sat nav. She’s on the move.”

“John!” Sherlock snapped, huffing with frustration. “Will you make yourself useful and get me out this?”

“I don’t know,” John replied with a smirk. “You know how much I enjoy seeing you all tied up.”

There was a pained noise in John’s headphones. “For the love of god, not while I’m listening.”

Sherlock, for his part, had turned a lovely shade of pink and was now lying quite peacefully waiting for John to release him. John sighed at the sight, though he was more than aware that now was not the time. He released the straps and tugged the blanket free so Sherlock could join him on the bench seat.

Sherlock retrieved his own headset from the co-pilot and sat. “Where are we?” he asked John as he adjusted his microphone.

“She’s moving,” John replied.

“Any idea where she’s going?”

“South,” Mycroft interjected. “Sussex, perhaps.”

“Sussex,” Sherlock said. His expression became pensive. “Sussex?”

“What about it?” John asked. “Who’s in Sussex?”

Sherlock shook his head as if to clear it and turned his attention to John. “No one. I’m sure it’s nothing. Mycroft, is everything ready?”

“Tactical Team is in flight and ready to deploy immediately.”

“Good. And the rest?”

“David has been taken to the airstrip in Cornwall. He and Mary will be evacuated to their new location as soon as possible. She will be debriefed there by ground personnel.”

John released a heavy breath. Sherlock’s fingers instantly curled around his own and they shared a look. Sherlock posed the question silently; John replied in kind, his eyes reflecting his faith in Sherlock and the love they shared.

“If you’re quite finished…” Mycroft droned.

“You should keep watching, brother dear,” Sherlock taunted gently, never taking his eyes from John. “You just might learn something.”

__________________________________________

It was a tedious flight following Mary’s signal at a distance, but she finally came to rest. Mycroft’s pilots landed Sherlock and John a short distance away, at the Eastbourne District General Hospital helipad.

Sherlock was once more wheeled inside by his physician, for appearances. Within minutes, they were able to abandon the gurney and disguises in a storage room. Sherlock donned surgeon’s scrubs this time, while John changed into a uniform belonging to the cleaning staff. John was relieved to get rid of the moustache, but found he’d been given another pair of glasses and a dark wig.

They left the room separately and met up at the hospital’s service entrance where Mycroft had dispatched a non-descript delivery lorry. They connected with Mycroft once more and were informed that the tac team was en route. With their ground support on the way and air support on stand-by, John took the wheel to drive them the short distance west to the village of East Dean.

As they neared the outer edge of the town and the signal from Mary’s car, Sherlock sighed.

“What is it?”

“God, I’m so stupid, John. So incredibly stupid.”

“What?”

“Sussex Downs,” Sherlock muttered.

“Sherlock…”

“It has to—but I missed—how?”

“Full sentences for the rest of us, please. What are you talking about?”

Sherlock shook his head as John parked the lorry on the nearest lane to the small cottage beside which Mary had parked. He jumped out, leaving John to follow him.

“Never mind. Too late now.”

“You’re not stupid,” John whispered as they followed the grassy slope around to the cottage’s front door. “Whatever it is, I’m sure it was something no one else would ever have thought of.”

“Which is precisely why I should have,” Sherlock huffed. He reached behind him to place a hand in the centre of John’s chest as the front of the cottage came into view. “Front door’s open.”

John reached back for his gun.

“Well, then,” Sherlock said, suddenly sounding very sanguine. “I guess that means we’re expected.”

He strode confidently past the windows, with John hissing his name and hesitantly following along behind him. As they reached the door, a familiar voice called out.

“Come on in, Sherl. You too, John. Kettle’s just boiled.”

John startled at the sound of the familiar voice. His gun hand dropped along with his jaw as he followed Sherlock into the red brick and grey stone cottage.

They stopped just inside the main sitting room, where Janine was in the process of pouring out the tea. Mary was pacing restlessly by the window. She paused and flipped the curtain back to survey the lawn outside.

“What, decided not to bring everyone with you?” she said peevishly. “Mycroft couldn’t spare anyone or are they all down the pub waiting for your call?”

John scowled at her, but Janine just chuckled.

“Don’t mind them, Mary.,” Janine said. “They won’t get here in time for it to matter.”

Janine picked up her own cup and saucer and moved to a large rocking chair by the fire. She settled in and took a sip of her tea. When no one else moved, she nodded at them.

“Well, go on. I didn’t make it for nothin’.”

John stepped further into the room, moving around the spot where Sherlock had become rooted to the ground. “Janine? What are you—how…?”

“Sister,” Sherlock said slowly, still staring at Janine.

“Oh, there you are!” Janine laughed, setting her teacup down. “I knew my Sherl would get to it eventually. Surprised it took you so long, to be honest.” She glanced at Mary. “I dropped hints all the time.”

“Me, too!” Mary laughed. “I guess he was distracted by his broken heart.” She looked at Sherlock and made an exaggerated pout.

“Sister?” John said finally. “Who’s sister? What the hell is going on?”

“Always bringing up the rear, aren’t you, John?” Mary closed the space between them, shaking her head. She took the gun from his hand. “I don’t know how you put with him,” she said to Sherlock. “He drives me right ‘round the twist with his bloody jumpers and his plodding. And the two-finger typing! God, there were days I didn’t think I could wait to kill him.”

“Shut up,” Sherlock snarled.

“Or what? Gonna’ defend your girlfriend, are you?”

Sherlock rounded on Mary with fury, digging his fingers into her throat as he shoved her back into the wall. “Don’t you ever speak to him or about him again. Not ever. You duplicitous, evil bitch.”

“Sherlock.” John’s voice was calm, which surprised him. He was shaking with the effort of controlling his own considerable anger. It was not an easy thing to learn that your wife had fooled you into thinking she was something she wasn’t. It was even more difficult to discover that she’d done it twice. He placed a hand on Sherlock’s arm. “Just let her go. They’ve already manipulated you into one murder. Let’s just leave it there, yeah?”

“Got it in one!” Janine crowed, jumping to her feet. “There, Mary—he’s not as thick as we thought.”

Sherlock slowly released his grip on Mary’s throat; she coughed and sputtered as she pulled free and moved to where Janine stood.

“So what happens now,” Sherlock sneered, turning to face the two women. “Are you going to tell us everything while we wait for our ground support? You know Mycroft’s ahead of all of this. There is nowhere either of you can go. This is it, so you might as well just fill in the gaps.”

Janine stepped closer to Sherlock and stroked a hand over his jaw. “I’ll tell you anything you want to know, sexy, but I’m not going to go down today.”

“Nothing to lose then. Go on.”

Janine calmly grabbed another tea cup and saucer, poured in a little milk and handed it to John. “No sugar for you.”

John took the cup and stared at it as Janine continued with a cup for Sherlock.

“Connor—Jimmy—and I were born five years apart. Same mother; different fathers, of course.” Janine handed Sherlock his cup and then returned to her chair. John watched with some pleasure as Mary served herself and returned to the window.

“Mam lived in Dublin before I was born; she moved west to be with my Da when Jimmy was about four,” Janine continued. “Everything was good for a while, but it didn’t last. Jimmy hated my Da and the feeling was mutual. Mam finally agreed to send Jimmy to England to live with my Aunt Jilly. He didn’t get on very well here, I’m afraid. He took a lot of shite from the other lads and it changed him.” Janine glanced up Sherlock. “But you know all about how that turned out, don’t you?”

Sherlock’s lips twitched. “Carl Powers.”

Janine cocked her head and took a sip of tea. The smile that stole across her face was gleeful. “Never say Jimmy didn’t know how to make a splash. Anyway, he gave himself a fresh start not long after—new name, new identity. He kept in touch, in his own way. He was so sweet.”

“He was a maniac!” John shouted, clattering his teacup back onto the table beside the pot. “Was…” John repeated thoughtfully. “Was the broadcast his doing or is he dead?”

“Oh, yes,” Janine assured them. “He’s dead. Pulled that trigger himself, just to beat Sherlock.” She sighed. “I loved him to bits, but you’re right—he was a loon.”

“So you took his place,” Sherlock interjected sardonically.

“Not right away, no. I was workin’ in America. Havin’ a grand old time with Magnussen’s people in New York. When I got Mam’s call about Jimmy, it took some time to sort myself out and get a job here in London. But when I did get settled, I looked up Jimmy’s old friends. That’s when I met Moran.”

“Lord Moran?” Sherlock’s brow raised.

“No, silly. Although I did help him get the bits for his bomb into the country.” Janine winked at Mary.

Both John and Sherlock stared at Mary. She shrugged and scowled back at them.

“You two didn’t really think my initials were A G R A, did you? For god’s sake, it’s a city in India!”

“No, I knew that had nothing to do with your name,” Sherlock said coldly. “However, Moran is not one of the many names in your file.”

Mary’s mouth grew pinched. “It was my birth name. Sabrina Moran. I was adopted when I was two. I decided to reclaim it when I—”

“Became a freelance assassin?” John offered.

“More or less.”

“When did you meet Moriarty?” Sherlock asked.

“Jim found me about ten years ago. He was starting to branch out; I was looking to make enough money to retire. It worked out.”

“So you were one of the snipers at the pool, but you didn’t go to 221B or the Yard or to Bart’s,” Sherlock continued. “No, he needed you out of sight and on hand in case anything went wrong. John was your mission from the beginning.” Sherlock considered this for a moment. “But _Jimmy_  didn’t tell you about all his plans for the roof, did he?”

“Well, obviously I knew his intention was to get you to jump. I didn’t know…he didn’t tell me about the gun.”

“I don’t think he’d thought that far ahead, to be honest,” Janine jumped in. “Impulse control issues.”

Sherlock started to pace, circling the room and its occupants. “He wanted you to destroy John, even if I died. He hated me that much.”

“He hated JOHN that much,” Janine laughed. “Honestly, Sherl. You’re hopeless! Jimmy was so jealous of John he could hardly see straight. He wanted you all to himself. Wanted your attention and your praise—even your hate. He just wanted all of you. And you had your little doctor pet. Drove him mad.”

Sherlock looked utterly stunned. “All of this—ALL OF THIS—over my relationship with John!? Jealousy? That’s it, really?”

“Well, no.” Janine set her cup down and stood again. “ _I_ want to kill you for revenge. Jimmy was terrifying, but he was my brother.”

“Kill me. But then why Magnussen, oh. Of course.”

Janine nodded. “You are such a clever clogs,” she teased, moving in close to run a hand over Sherlock’s chest.  “I want you dead, naturally, but first I wanted to finish what Jimmy started. I wanted you to burn. I wanted you to feel your heart tearing itself to bits inside your chest with the pain you’d caused John, and ache of knowin’ that it was too late because while he might love you—DOES love you—he’d found someone else and was going to marry her. I wanted you to seethe when you discovered who Mary really was and be overcome with terror that she might hurt John…and yet be utterly helpless to do anythin’ except protect him and the life you thought he still wanted. Though Mary did panic and very nearly cut all my fun short.”

Mary rolled her eyes. “I was SO sick of the pair of them. And with Magnussen sniveling in the corner, it seemed so pointless to just wound Sherlock. Still, he did survive.”

“By the skin of his teeth,” Janine chastised. “That shot nearly ended everything too soon.”

“This, between you two. How did we miss that?” John asked quietly, waving a hand back and forth between Mary and Janine.

“Because women are such a mystery to the pair of you that our relationships with each other don’t even register. Didn’t it seem strange to you that Mary made me her chief bridesmaid after knowing me for a matter of months? Or that she and I became friends at all? How on earth did you think we’d met, her working at a small surgery on the far side of London and me spendin’ my days and nights with Magnussen’s circle? Honestly.” Janine shook her head. “You were so distracted by each other that you made it easy.”

John glanced down, chagrined, but Sherlock continued to glare at Janine.

“What about the baby? And David?” John asked roughly.

“The baby is a minor hiccup,” Mary sighed. “Unplanned, but very useful in the end. David’s sweet, but I don’t see any need to keep him around.” She rubbed a hand over her belly. “Don’t worry about us. We’ll be fine.”

“So you made me a murderer,” Sherlock muttered, following Janine’s movements back through the room to the fireplace where she retrieved a loaded handgun from the mantel.

“Exactly,” Mary agreed, grinning. “I always knew you had it in you.”

“You see, Sherl,” Janine started. “I wanted you to be rash and reckless when you tried to fix things for the man you loved, even knowin’ that it might cost you your freedom, if not your life. I wanted your brother to face the horrible decision to lock you away or to do something’ desperate and ruin his own career as well. I hadn’t considered the option of the suicide mission, but when I found out about it, well, I couldn’t have you spoiling my plans with another daring escape in Serbia, now could I?”

“Magnussen was a game. All of that. It was just a game,” John shook his head.

“Well, yes,” Mary snapped. “Do try and keep up. Look, are we just about done with true confessions, because we have a plane to catch.”

“I told you,” Sherlock said coldly. “Mycroft is ahead of all of this. I may have missed it, but I’m sure he didn’t. The tactical team is no doubt in position right outside and air support are on their way.”

Janine shrugged her jacket on, passing her gun between hands as she did. “And when they get here, they’ll find a smolderin’ crater where this cottage used to be.” Janine beamed at Sherlock, pointing to the wires hidden along each of the ceiling beams. She winked. “I chose this place with care—I hated the beehives, but it has other amenities.”

“What, you’re just going to blow us up?” John asked incredulously. “All that work and time in this big plot and you’re going to just blow us up?”

“’Course not,” Janine replied cheerfully. Before Sherlock or John could think to respond, she’d raised her gun and fired at John.

John fell, hard, as the bullet tore through his upper thigh.

Sherlock grabbed for him. “John! Oh, god. No. No.” He gathered John into his arms as John scrambled to try and staunch the heavy flow of blood.

“That ought to keep everyone busy,” Janine said. She moved toward the kitchen at the back of the cottage. “This has been a lot of fun, really it has. But it’s time for me to move on. Enjoy your last moments together, boys!”

With that, Janine darted from the room. Mary moved to follow, but cried out when a bullet struck her in the shoulder. She fell forward on to her hands and knees and looked back over her shoulder in shock.

Sherlock stood and stalked toward her, John’s gun in his hand and still raised toward her. “Shouldn’t have been so careless,” he sneered. “Shouldn’t have left this where I could get at it.”

“J-John. He’ll bleed out,” she gasped.

“Oh, well, we’re going to die anyway, aren’t we?” Sherlock growled. He stopped mere inches from her and pressed the gun into the side of her head. “God, you have no idea how long I have wanted to do this. Threaten me, fine. Threaten John…” he started to squeeze the trigger.

“Sherlock,” John called weakly.

The door burst open and the tac team entered. The leader quickly surveyed the rigged explosives before grabbing Sherlock’s arm to drag him away.

“Out. Out NOW!!!”

He shoved at Sherlock to get him moving toward the door while the others dealt with Mary and carried John to the entrance.

Sherlock was nearly clear when they were thrown forward—the weight of debris behind them as the cottage shattered with the blast. The concussion was deafening, and they all emerged from the smoke a little bloodied.

As the haze cleared, Sherlock crawled to where John had fallen with an injured soldier just beginning to rouse beside him. Sherlock eased John onto his back and blanched at the amount of blood he had lost. John reached up for Sherlock.

“Oh, god, John. Tell me what to do. Tell me. Please!”

“Artery. Fem-femoral. Stop—ungh—bleeding. Tourni—“

John grimaced as he lost the word.

Sherlock nodded vigorously, clearly edging close to panic. “Yes. Of course. Tourniquet.”

Sherlock glanced around for something to use. The soldier beside him was tugging on something at her waist as she pressed on a wound above her eye.

“Sir,” she said, her other hand extended toward him. In it was her belt.

“Thank you,” Sherlock said briskly.

“You’ll want to tie about here,” she offered, pointing at a spot on John’s thigh.

“Medic?”

“No, but I’ve seen this before,” she said, pulling herself to her feet. “Air support is ready to land. I’ve called for a stretcher.”

Sherlock took only a second to look up at the young woman. “Thank you.”

He was still shaking as he secured the belt. He pulled his shirt off and pressed it against the wound—just as John had taught him.

“John?”

There was no answer. John’s eyes began to drift closed.

“Oh, god. NO! John? John wake up right now. Don’t. Just don’t. Please!”

John stirred a little. “Shhhhh. M’okay. It’s okay.”

There was more activity closer to their position and Sherlock found himself surround by three additional soldiers, two bearing a stretcher.

“Sir? We’ll take him now. Sir?”

Sherlock was frozen, unable to take his hand from John.

“Sir!”

“Never mind,” one of the others said. “Bring them together.”


	11. After the wars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The survivors deal with the aftermath.

John woke with a jolt, plummeting from unconsciousness with a thud.

“Ah, welcome back, John.”

“Who…Mycroft?” John swivelled his head in the direction of the voice. Sherlock’s brother was seated on the edge of a chair next to his bed. He was leaning forward on his umbrella. He looked restless and worried. “Where?”

“Hospital. In Eastbourne.”

“Sherlock? Oh, god. Mary?”

“My brother is in surgery. He was so focused on preventing you from dying of your gunshot wound that no one noticed his head wound until he blacked out in the helicopter.”

“Head wound,” John repeated groggily. He tried to sit up, grunting at the shooting pain in his leg and instantly flopping back down. “How bad?”

“It isn’t all that serious, so they tell me. However they needed him unconscious to get at the debris from the explosion and do some stitching. It isn’t terribly deep—no risk of any brain damage—but enough for significant blood loss.”

“Jesus,” John groaned. “Did Mary…? Sherlock shot her. She was trying to escape with Janine.”

Mycroft sighed heavily. “Mary survived. The wound was not significant. However, the trauma sent her into labour. Don’t worry.” He held up a hand to ward off John’s obvious question. “The baby is perfectly healthy and well.”

“And is she…with Mary?”

“The deal I was prepared to offer Mary is now off the table,” Mycroft said, shifting back in his chair. “She will be going to prison. As such, she has opted to contact the child’s father. David is with them now. Apparently he plans to move in with his sister—she is divorced and doesn’t have any children of her own.”

“Right,” John said gruffly, his throat a bit tight. “Good. That’s good.”

"Is it? I thought perhaps..."

John shook his head weakly. “No, it’s fine. David’s her father. That’s where she belongs.” He hesitated. “Would you consider—?”

“Keeping an eye on her?” Mycroft nodded soberly. “I will ensure that she is cared for and happy where she is. David had no idea about Mary’s past, if that helps. He’s suitably horrified.”

“Yeah, it does help, actually,” John breathed. “In more than one way.”

Mycroft nodded. “Now that you are out of danger, I’ll go and see if Sherlock is out of surgery.” He stood and straightened his waistcoat. “He’ll be brought back to this room.”

“Thanks. Really—thank you.”

Mycroft nodded again as he turned toward the door. “Of course. After all, you’re part of the family now.”

John let that settle over him as he rested, dozing with the morphine and losing track of time. When he woke again, the room was dark and there was a gentle beeping from another monitor on the other side of the room.

“Sherlock?” he said, groggy again. He pressed his light on and turned to his left.

The figure in the next bed was Sherlock—there was no mistaking the lanky form and pale skin showing underneath the hospital gown. Unfortunately, the bandages on Sherlock’s head obscured one side of his face as well, shielding him from John’s view.

“Hey, love. Are you awake?”

When Sherlock didn’t answer, John pressed his call button for help. He waited restlessly for the nurse to appear. When the door opened and the young man appeared, John tried to sit up.

“Is he okay?” he asked, trying not to sound panicky as he pointed at Sherlock’s bed. “Has anyone checked his vitals? Is there a guard outside the door?”

“Oi, oi, easy now,” the nurse—Baz, according to his nametag—said briskly. He scooted in close to John’s bed, and urged John to lie back down. “Come on. Just relax.”

“Yeah, but—”

“He’s fine,” Baz said. “I was in twenty minutes ago and everything looks fine. The surgery went really well, so we expect him to make a quick recovery.”

John relaxed a little. “Good. That’s…good. But I’d feel better if I could sit beside his bed. You know, so he knows I’m there when he wakes up?”

Baz gave him a look. “You had a bullet tear a hole through you.”

“Not the first time,” John grimaced.

Baz raised a brow at this. “Well, even so, you need to rest and give your wound a chance to heal properly. You’ve got a much longer road ahead than he does.”

John waved a hand impatiently. “Doesn’t matter. Look, I need to be _over there_. Are you going to help me or not?”

Baz studied him a moment, then sighed. “All right. But you are not getting out of this bed.”

He set to work and within a few minutes had John’s drip and leads all rearranged in order to push John’s bed over. He stopped the bed right next to Sherlock’s and locked the wheels once more.

“There. Good?”

John was already leaning over to take Sherlock’s hand. He nodded, not looking up from his careful survey of Sherlock’s injuries and bandages.

“Right, then. Try to get some rest yourself, all right? And call me if you need anything.”

“Yeah,” John acknowledged briefly, hardly registering Baz’ departure. He rubbed Sherlock’s fingers as he watched the monitor for a few minutes. “Good. Everything looks normal. Thank god.”

He let himself relax against his pillows, Sherlock’s fingers twined with his own. He watched his love until he finally fell back into fretful slumber.

____________________

“John? John, are you awake?”

John mumbled something in the affirmative, dragging himself out of the drug-induced sleep. “Sherl—?”

“Yes. Open your eyes for me.”

“Bossy,” John grumbled. He opened his eyes and immediately squinted against the bright daylight. “Times’it?”

“Noonish,” Sherlock replied. He was sitting up on the edge of his bed, legs tucked down into the narrow gap between it and John’s own bed. He was hovering, surveying John with a frown.

“S’matter?”

“How is your pain?”

John snorted and tried to smile. “How’s yours?” He looked at the man beside him critically. “You look like you lost a fight.”

“Yes, well, I did. A bit.” Sherlock lifted a hand to gingerly finger over the bandages that covered most of the right side of his head. “They said I had some rubble embedded in my scalp, and a piece of glass nearly took my ear off. Doctor said my brother’s people almost missed it…”

“Because of all your hair?” John teased.

“No,” Sherlock said, making a face. “Because they thought all the blood was yours!”

John winked at him. “Good thing, then, that you’ve got such a thick skull.”

“Funny.” He looked at John’s leg. “The nurse said it was a through-and-through. No bullet to worry about, but lots of tissue damage.”

“More physio,” John grumbled.

“Most likely, yes,” Sherlock confirmed. “But you’re here,” he said softly, taking John’s hand in both of his own. “I…”

“Don’t,” John said, his voice rough. “Don’t say it. You don’t have to. I know.”

“Of course you do. But I _want_ to say it.” Sherlock took a deep breath. “John Watson, I love you more than my own life and nothing frightens me more than the idea of living without you. I won’t do it. I don’t think I can remember how. Not anymore.”

John squeezed Sherlock’s fingers. “It’s the same for me, love.”

“Good,” Sherlock nodded gingerly. “That’s settled. We just…won’t. I want—that is, I was hoping—”

“Marry me?”

The question was posed so softly that Sherlock didn’t seem to register it right away. When it finally sunk in, his head came up slowly and he stared at John. His lips were slightly parted, in a little “o.” He nodded once, his eyes looking like—

“Are those tears?” John asked. He reached up to brush at them with the back of his knuckles. “Real tears? From Sherlock Holmes?”

“Shut up,” Sherlock sniffed. “Isn’t every day a man gets engaged.”

John’s own eyes were a little damp as Sherlock bent down to place a tender kiss on his cheek.

“I can’t wait to go home. With you.”

“Me, too,” John hummed happily. “We—oh wait a minute. I very nearly forgot. Janine! Did they find her body in the rubble?”

“Ah, I see Mycroft left some things out when he visited you earlier. No body because it is very likely she is not dead.”

“What?”

“When the team went into the rubble, they discovered an elaborate system of old tunnels underneath the cottage.”

“Tunnels? What on earth for?”

“Smuggling, most likely. One of them led all the way out to the coast.”

John shook his head and chuckled. “Well, she did say the place had amenities.”

“Indeed.”

“Now what, then?”

“Oh, I’ll find her. Mycroft will help. She can’t hide forever.”

“The game is on?”

“The game is on.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the egregious delay. I got my head all turned around by this one. All sorted now. Just the epilogue (i.e. porn) to go! I promise it will be worth it.

**Author's Note:**

> I must add one important note of thanks: To [beltainefaerie](http://archiveofourown.org/users/beltainefaerie/pseuds/beltainefaerie) for being so generous with information when I asked for help. When I started the first story in this series, I realized I had a lot to learn about the dynamics of different kinds of BDSM and Dom/sub relationships. Bel was very kind, sharing knowledge and offering feedback. It so very much appreciated <3 <3


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